Mister Time
Through drowsy quivers of wired thoughts
I lose an hour in the morning
to parry every second of vengeance,
as if to hasten my night rituals
from the unrelenting pace of dawn-break…
and as tunnels honk, my eyes forget
to relish the yellow buds-in- waiting.
Again, Mr. Time… you steal my fresh hours
while my soul wanders far beyond
a metered compass for a rendezvous
with my day’s free- flowing motion.
Now, my hands crave to make love
with the softness of earth’s clay
or bathe in a camphor sun, lapping a wind.
Your meter is not mine to rent or borrow;
and by the glory of night and moon
the bards’ tale knows my songs...
allow me then to age here,
groping with the endless fingers
of sweet eternity.
Funny how time seems to fly contest
Sponsor:Brenda Chiri-Carroll repost 10/6/2016
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2015
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